Learn from Marley’s Ghost and me: Don’t make our mistake

It
might be noted, after that steal from Charles Dickens, that Chuck was unhappily
married, according to biographers. If you've ever seen a picture of him, it is
probably because of the facial hair.

But
that is Chuck's business, and to him and his bad beard I owe a debt of
gratitude that can never be, in this lifetime, repaid. "A Christmas Carol"
still brings me much joy, both in "A Muppets Christmas Carol" and in
"Scrooged." Each stole freely (not counting royalties) from the
Dickens original, so I’m not alone in stealing the dickens out of Dickens.

But
beyond that, it goes back to 10th grade when Mrs. Mullins said, "Get out
your copies of 'Great Expectations.' I nearly pulled a muscle reaching for the heavy
novel while the rest of the West Monroe High Class of ’77 let out a moan you
could hear all the way to North 7th Street, down to “The Original” Coney Island
on Natchitoches and across the Ouachita River to Forsythe Park.

Hatred
of Dickens by the Southern teen is not uncommon. It is also very loud.

I
loved “Great Expectations.” Not as much as I loved Coney Island, but what 10th
grader loves Victorian literature as much as he loves a chili cheese dog? I
wasn’t THAT weird.

But
speaking of love, it is, as we've established, the day after Valentine's Day.
Do you know where your marriage is?

I
hope so. Because although Valentine's Day is the most unforgiving and needless
“holiday” of them all -- you need a day to remember to tell the one you love
that you love them? -- it is still important. By important I mean “a case of
life and death.” Please, learn from my mistakes and go with the flow here.

Valentine's
Day was dreamed up by the same guy who invented competitive cheerleading, a
sport that involves athletic and nimble youngsters whose parents will line up
40-deep in gymnasiums and civic centers around the nation to buy $30 T-shirts
until their hands bleed. This guy is a force of nature.

The
evil brain behind Valentine’s Day convinced himself he could make a zillion
dollars if he could only devise a way to convince innocent men and women that
they have to buy a card and flowers once a year – or else. Where’s Oprah and
Dr. Phil when you really need them?

Happily
and gratefully married to an (obviously) easy-to-please woman, I think back on
the times when I was wild and hard to control, when testosterone ruled my life,
when my only thought was seeing Her again. Of course I’m talking about fourth
grade, and Mrs. Huggins, my original love.

It
was over by Valentine’s Day. It could be because I forgot to get her a card. (See
Bible: Original Sin.) But it could be because by then, the Grace Kelly of my
dreams had ballooned to the size of Lambeau Field. This was thanks in part to
Mr. Huggins, which my dad had a hard time explaining to me. Mr. Huggins. Mrs.
Huggins. A little Huggins on the way.

And
I thought fourth-grade math was hard.

But
why wasn’t I good enough? What did Mr. Huggins have that I didn’t have, besides
maybe a driver’s license and a job? Well, he had Mrs. Huggins, for starters.
And for enders.

And
so I learned early, as Pip did in “Great Expectations.” Poor Pip, there on the
outside of Estella’s world, bound by fate to always be looking in. And named
Pip, too. Dude.

Pip
and I know through loving and losing that expectations are a risky deal, and
that things just don’t work out sometimes. Nobody’s fault. One minute you’re on
the monkey bars, having aced a spelling test 15 minutes ago, and then you go
back into class and find out your teacher is sleeping with her husband, and the
smiley face on your test paper is nothing more than a smiley face, meaning
simply, “I’m glad you finally learned how to spell ‘civics.’ No ‘k.’ Good for
you!”

A
good book title for a book about Valentine’s Day would be “Mediocre
Expectations.” Then we’d have a happy ending.